Eyrie (29 page)

T
hey were eating when Gemma came in. She tossed keys on the bench, dumped her bag on the floor like a high-schooler and lifted lids from pots on the stove. Keely noted Kai’s watchful gaze. He saw his mother follow Gemma’s movements without actually turning to look. Doris jangled, lifting her glass, sipping soda water.

Looks good, said Gemma, as if saying so cost her something.

Plenty there, love, said Doris, glancing at Kai.

Gemma wore the little black dress she’d confronted Stewie in, the day they seized the car. Her hair was in a chignon that had gone awry and been flattened with sweat. Still in her heels, she dredged some pasta into a bowl, pulled a fork from the drawer and began to eat listlessly at the sink, her back almost completely turned. Keely saw her reflected face in the kitchen window and knew there was trouble.

He picked at his food. Felt the crackling energy in the room. After a long pause the boy spoke up.

Where’d you go?

Out, said Gemma.

Shoulda said.

What? Are you the boss now?

The boy glowered at his plate. Gemma turned. Her eyes were red, her face looked boiled.

You don’t need to know everythin.

Doris laid a hand on the boy’s arm and the gesture seemed to inflame Gemma.

Let him be, she said fiercely. You’ll make him soft.

Soft isn’t so bad, love.

Look where it gets you, she said, hitching her chin towards Keely.

He felt his mother’s indignation before the insult even registered. He looked at his food, glanced at Kai’s clouded face.

What say we finish our meal and have a talk afterwards? said Doris with a steely lightness.

What say we all mind our own beeswax, said Gemma, shoving her bowl along the bench.

Gemma, he said. I need to talk to you.

Talk? That’s all you’re good for.

Has something happened, love? asked Doris.

That’s my business.

Kai, said Doris brightly. Maybe you and I could finish our dinner out on the deck.

Instantly there was fear in the boy’s face.

He can stay where he is, said Gemma. I’m sick of being told what to do.

Sweetie, I’m not telling you what to do. That was a suggestion.

Pig’s arse.

You’re upset. Kai and I could leave you two to talk things over, that’s all I’m saying.

You make it sound like butter wouldn’t melt in ya mouth, Doris, but you’re still telling me what to do. Kai, get ya stuff.

Don’t be ridiculous, said Keely. Just settle down, will you?

Kai!

Kai, maybe you should tell your nan about Clappy, said Keely.

But the boy shook his head. There was tomato sauce on his chin and then tears on his cheeks.

Who’s Clappy? said Doris.

Jesus Christ, said Gemma. I’ll fuckin kill him.

Doris stroked the boy’s hair but he slipped from his chair and ran to the spare room. Tom, she said, there’s a key and a map on the sideboard. I’ll go and sit with Kai a minute.

What the fuck? said Gemma when Doris was gone.

Keep your voice down. Please.

Tell me.

He says Clappy’s watching him, said Keely.

Shithead! What’d he do?

Nothing. He’s just there. Stands across the street from school, out in the open. Like he wants to be seen. Gemma, you have to go to the cops.

I told you.

Then there’s a place down south. Doris made some calls.

Fuck Doris!

You have to protect him, Gem, he said despite his fury. You have to think of him.

They’ll take him off me – that’s what’s gunna happen. I
am
thinking of him – you haven’t got a clue.

No one’s going to take him off you, mate. You’re just rattled, that’s all.

They’re crazy, she said, picking up her bag and heading through to the livingroom. Fuckin mad dogs, that’s what.

Keely followed as she collected things he hadn’t even noticed – folded laundry, celebrity magazines. She pitched them into a plastic washbasket.

They’ve got debts. And now they’re jumpin out of their skin cause some other joker’s movin in on their business. Like someone’s declared war. They want the money right now.

So tell the cops, he said, reeling.

Stop sayin that! Fuckin look at you.

Then go tonight. The key’s here. You heard Doris. Go away for a bit.

There’s no goin away, don’t you understand? No one’s gunna pull these pricks in. Even if they do and some copper gets lucky or fits em up with a bit of gear, they’re out on bail. Just down the road there. Even if a charge sticks there’s only jail.

Then at least they’re locked up.

What planet are you on? Nothin stops em from in there.

Keely felt for the couch, braced his knees against the frame, pressed his hands on the curve of its back to keep himself upright.

So what are you saying?

We have to find money, she hissed.

But this’ll just go on, Gem.

Not for them. They won’t get a cent.

I’m not following.

We need money to pay someone else. To fix this, stop em.

He took her arm, led her out to the deck. Slid the door to behind them. She shrugged him away, scowling.

Gemma. Paying someone else. What’re you talking about?

You gunna stop em? You’re a fuckin softcock, mate.

Well, thanks a lot. But Keely knew she was right. All he’d done was make it worse. He’d indulged himself, thinking he was so bloody clever.

I don’t need your pissfartin about, I need this sorted. And it costs money.

What, like some kind of standover man? This is insane.

Properly. Professional.

No.

No choice.

It’s wrong, Gem. It’s his father.

I don’t care. I’ve made me mind up.

Jesus, Gemma. You can’t pay.

I’ll pay.

How.

She looked at him. In the light her face was cold with resignation. He’d seen that look before. Just seeing it made him ashamed to be a man.

And then Doris was approaching from inside the house. Her heels thudding on the floorboards. She slid the door open.

Tom, can we speak for a moment?

I’ll go pack, said Gemma.

You’ll do it, then? asked Doris. You’ll go south?

No, she said. We’re goin home. Thanks for havin us. Sorry it’s such a bloody mess.

You’re always welcome, love, said Doris sorrowfully, stepping aside to let her pass. Catching the kiss on the cheek she wasn’t expecting.

I’ll go, too, he said.

I wish she’d go to Stephanie’s.

Me too.

Look after them, Tom. And yourself. Please.

I will, he said hopelessly.

We’ll talk.

We will.

I
n the Mirador carpark he tried to jolly the kid along a little but Kai was unresponsive.

I shoulda stayed, said Gemma in the lift.

You’re here now.

He looked at their things stuffed into shopping bags, a plastic laundry basket. The kid’s schoolbag.

The door cranked back at the tenth floor. There was no one on the gallery. No sign of anything wrong at either flat.

I can sleep on your couch, he said in her doorway. Kai went straight in to bed.

No, she said. No need.

Really.

I’m late for work.

You’re going?

Of course I’m goin.

What about him?

He’s got your number. He’ll stay here now.

What about school?

Not until it’s over.

She shut the door on him.

His flat smelt stagnant. He flopped into his armchair and thought of Kai. Heard Gemma leave for work a little before nine. Sat up. Waiting. He’d do it all night, stay awake until she was safely home.

*

But somebody was pounding at his door. And it was dark. Well, half dark. And when he groped on the floor beside the chair there was no plausible weapon to hand.

He snapped to his feet and felt the sickening lag as if half of him hadn’t made it there yet. Thumping at the door.

His name.

They were yelling his name.

Clawed the wall. He was bare-chested. Lurched to the bedroom. For a shirt. Absurd, but he needed a shirt. To do this, confront what awaited him. Wondered if he had the balls to do anything more than cower behind the door. The room was dim. He groped for the cupboard. And almost trampled the kid. Curled in his jarmies. On the carpet, at the foot of the bed. Stirring now as Keely stumbled around him.

Open the fuckin door, Tom!

Keely wheeled back into the livingroom at the sound of Gemma’s voice. Only Gemma. He was fine. Everything was fine. He plucked at the door-chain.

Right now!

He leant against the fridge a moment. Things were blurry.

You hear me?

The door jumped in its frame; she was kicking it. He turned the lock. Hauled it open. And she had the force of dawn behind her. It was like having his head staved in.

Where is he? Jesus Christ, Tom, what the fuck?

Keely sagged against the fridge, fists against his temples. She pushed past him.

You, she said at the boy grinding sleep from his eyes in the bedroom doorway.

Gemma grabbed him up fiercely and Keely caught Kai’s glance across her shoulder as she hugged him.

Keely pulled himself around to face the kitchen clock. It was 6.52. Which meant he was supposed to be at work in eight minutes.

What’re you fuckin doin? she hissed. What happened?

Nothing happened. I think he let himself in.

Gemma rounded on him. You don’t even
know
?

I only just saw him now. He was asleep on the floor.

Jesus Christ, she said, lowering the kid to his feet and hauling him towards the door. You didn’t even hear him come in? You let him sleep on the floor?

He looked at Kai, saw the key on its shoelace against his pigeon chest.

He’s alright, Gem, he’s safe.

No thanks to you.

All I did was go to sleep in my own flat.

Pissed as a stick.

No, he said.

She dragged Kai past him and out onto the gallery.

The boy looked back hopefully. Keely tried a reassuring smile but the kid was not fooled.

A
t Bub’s he was a man hauling his own corpse through a swamp. The air in the kitchen was miasmic. He felt the grease settling on his skin and he drew it hot into his lungs with every breath. He was queasy, lightheaded, sore and clammy, so unsteady others had to jostle and dodge him. Kids, most of them. Taking the piss. He saw their mouths move, their eyes roll. Sound seemed to come and go intermittently. Everything around him – light, noise, space itself – felt sliced and diced. The morning towed him along a little way, sluiced past him, washed back to get him. Time was choppy. Fitful. Endlessly interrupted. Like a broken signal. Dirty coronas hung over every passing object. He worked, aping his own movements, head fluffy as the suds rising in his face. Bub looked disgusted. The chef – that squirrelly hipster with all the earrings and the pirate get-up – had the shits with him. Scowling, flashing his ruined teeth. Keely stayed at it all morning, digging deep; he was determined. But the Hobart cabinet had racks backed up beside it and the benches against the sink were head-high with pans and trays, everything, clean or dirty, glistening horribly. And then in the prep-hour before lunch he found himself just hanging against the trough, hands jerking in suds. Vertical. But useless.

Suddenly the chef was screaming. Something he couldn’t hear. The bloke was brandishing a cleaver at him from across the room and next moment Keely was on the reeking mats amidst a forest of clogs and legs. I’ve been struck, he thought. That idiot’s actually thrown the thing at me, cut me down. No sound at all. And then, like an approaching cataract, a rush of noise overtook him – laughter, cutlery, music – and he was wrenched to his feet.

Fuckin plonker, said some kid.

Go outside and get yourself what you need, said the chef without a hint of camaraderie. Ten minutes. Or piss off now.

*

Keely sat on a milk crate in the reeking alley as a waiter and a kitchen hand played hackeysack during their smoko. Bub appeared beside him, squatting on the step.

Everything alright, Tom?

Yeah.

Sure?

Soft, mate, that’s all.

Bub glanced at him sceptically. Keely’s younger workmates propped and kicked and giggled amidst the weeds and the flattened cartons.

Geez, mate. You must need the money.

I need something, Keely thought. But all he could manage was a thin grin.

Go home, said Bub. God’s sake, go to bed.

I’m fine, said Keely. Sorry about the fuss.

Behind them in the kitchen a tub of plates smashed. It was like a mortar blast between his temples, but he got up, wiped his bacon-greasy hands on his apron and watched Bub go.

Hey, he said to the kids with the hackeysack. You know a speed-freak called Clappy?

The kitchen hand shrugged and stooped to pick up his little beanbag.

Ask Gypsy, said the waiter.

Nah, he’s off the gear, said the kitchen hand.

Still, he’ll know.

Gypsy
? said Keely. Are you serious?

The waiter sniffed and the kids resumed their game.

T
he morning chef’s studied machismo wasn’t just irritating, it was silly. It was as if he’d worked up an act to imitate the celebrity bad boys of New York and London. The pirate scarf, the earrings, the sea-leg swagger. Gypsy might have been a good-looking dude in his time, but he was ravaged. Probably in his early forties. Looked a lot older. Even before the stunt with the cleaver Keely hadn’t liked him. It wasn’t just the posturing, it was the sourness, the lack of generosity. As if a roomful of people scurrying to keep things afloat deserved to be shat on.

Yesterday, after his shift, the chef had sat out at a street table in his checks and clogs, necking espressos and passing comment on women as they swept by. And he was there again after lunch today as Keely stepped out into the shade like a man delivered. The day was over. Thank Christ.

There was an old bloke with Gypsy, an Italian gambler he recognized from around town. The chef shook his hand and the geezer cranked himself to his feet and gimped off. Keely hesitated, then sat down uninvited.

Ah. The fainting dishpig, said Gypsy. That had to have been embarrassing.

I guess it was.

This is my table.

I think it’s Bub’s table.

And, what, you’ve come to apologize for being a pussy?

I wanted to ask you about a couple of blokes.

You look familiar. Which bothers me.

Maybe we were in Sunday School together.

That’ll be it.

Tom Keely.

That your name, or the bloke you want me to tell you about?

No, it’s me.

Hang down your head, Tom Keely, sang Gypsy. Hang down your head and cry.

Bloke called Stewie Russell – you know him? He’s got a mate called Clappy.

The chef’s eyes narrowed.

Why would I know two little shits like that? Shitlets. Small pieces of ordure.

So you do know them.

Never said that, said Gypsy. Fellas you met inside, are they?

Here? I don’t think so.

Fucksake.

Oh.
Inside
.

The chef uttered a sardonic laugh. Christ.

No. Nothing like that.

Figured you for a lag. Bub giving an old mate a second chance. He does that, bless his cheap little heart.

I need some information.

Mate, if you’re looking to score you’re talking to the wrong bloke.

I just wanted some advice.

A bloke looking as fucked as you, talking about shits of a certain species, sounds like you’re in the market for advice I don’t give anymore. Wake up, mate, clean yourself up. Leave me out of it.

I wanted to clarify something. A situation.

Tom Dooley. In a situation. Who’da thunk it?

I need to know who I’m up against.

Gypsy circled the espresso cup on its saucer, shunting it round with a be-ringed pinky.

There’s just something I have to deal with, said Keely. For someone else. I need to know how dangerous they are.

Smaller the stakes, the nastier the fight, Dooley. Morons. And what could be worse?

How d’you mean?

Nitwits with nothing to lose. They’re not people you
deal
with. You walk away. Or find some mates to fix it for you. And if you’ve got those sort of mates don’t talk to me anymore, I don’t wanna know. I’m not shitting you. Don’t even come near me. These little cunts are only ever a few weeks from fucking up. They’ll be banged up in Casuarina soon enough. Your ‘friend’ needs to cash up or keep his head down. Now move on, Dooley, you’re frightening the ladies.